


A Portrait of the Witcher as a Man in Love

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beltane, But mostly just a lot of feelings, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Flowers and, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sex, Trapped in a Painting, Yearning, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: An artist pays Geralt for a job with a painting, and asks him to dream up a subject.It's the most realistic portrait he's ever seen: dark hair, bright eyes, and a smile that promises mischief. He names him Jaskier, and something about him makes Geralt want to talk.This is a Pygmalion-inspired post-canon AU in which Jaskier hasn't existed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 131
Kudos: 485





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if there's one of these in the Witcher fic world yet, so here we are.  
> My stories are fed by a blend of book, game, and show characterizations.
> 
> I should probably add at the beginning here that this story references a side quest in The Witcher 3 (A Portrait of the Witcher as an Old Man), which results in Geralt having a rather glorious portrait painted. You don't have to have played it to understand the story.

It isn’t the first time Geralt has been gifted a painting. It is becoming a theme, in fact, the longer he stays in Toussaint. His “retirement” has proven, so far, to be far from leisurely. Outside of visits from Ciri, Yen, and Triss, the long nights have been spent prowling the countryside slaying countless barghests, not lounging in a chaise, looking up at the stars, enjoying the spoils of the Sansretour.

Despite its abundance of knights errant, there are still lost and desperate souls in Toussaint. Even after helping the duchess with her affairs, Geralt has been pulled into one job after another as word spreads of the witcher residing at Corvo Bianco. He no longer needs coin; his majordomo oversaw a transformation of the estate, and the vineyard has already turned a profit. The workers are decently paid, the grounds are covered in luscious greens and deep reds, and the herbs and flowers fill the air with rich aromas.

Still, afternoons are frequently filled with world-weary visitors, offering up anything they have for help. There are wights in the countryside, kikimores, and worse—those damned giant centipedes that truly piss Geralt off. And even in Toussaint, there are bandits and knaves. Geralt could never resist putting a bully in his place.

So here he is, being offered yet another painting. He’d helped a few artists before, painters and sculptors. This one had set her mind to completing a portrait by a particular brook—something nymphlike (or anyway, what humans thought of as nymphlike) with scantily clad maidens bathing. Unfortunately, archespores had infested the area. The artist had barely escaped with her life, but her determination had stuck: she wanted to paint _there_ , at _that_ spring-fed stream in particular.

Geralt hated archespores, and he knew they’d continue to fester if left unchecked, so he cleared them out with a somewhat excessive use of Igni.

It isn’t the first painting he’s been gifted—or the first to be painted according to his preferences (though the first had, rather embarrassingly, resulted in a more _revealing_ outcome than he planned)—but it is the first to require quite so much creative input.

“Don’t you paint from models?” he asks the artist. 

“Sometimes.” She looks down her nose at him and sashays across the studio, gesturing to her previous work. “But a true artist can plunder the imagination, pull image from dream, and breathe life itself into a shade. I paint portraits of the soul!”

“Right.” _Then,_ _why did you need the brook cleared?_ Artists. He stares at her.

“So then, _monsieur_ , what shall I paint you? Your own portrait?”

“No.” He frowns. “Just… whoever.”

She makes a face. “Do you want it to show a man or a woman?”

“I don’t care.”

“You must decide!”

“Why?”

“You must! Man or woman?” Her voice grates.

“Fine. Man.”

“And his hair, monsieur? What color? Silver?”

“No, it isn’t me. Just, brown.”

“He shall be tall, like you, no? With your shoulders? With this musculature?”

“Not like me, no.”

“He will be fat?”

“No, just,” Geralt sighs, “average. He can be… toned. I don’t care.”

“His eyes? Amber? Gold?”

“No. Silver. Uh, blue. Blue is fine.”

“And his skin? He shall have the delicate and rosy flush of bashful youth—but touched with sun, no snowy flower to wither in the heat—a young hunter.”

“Young?” Geralt feels his forehead crease. “I don’t want a picture of some kid.”

“Mmm. He shall be no youth, then.” She taps at her lips with a slender finger. “And what shall he hold? A bow? A strapping archer?”

“I have weapons all over Corvo Bianco. I don’t need any more weapons.”

“Music then! I shall paint him a lute. He shall be the most talented troubadour in all Beauclair. No! In all Toussaint and beyond! Greater than even those famed in Nilfgaard and Temeria and Redania—”

“Fine, fine. That’s fine.”

“You will return in a fortnight and receive this gift.”

“Mm.”

He almost forgets about it. There’s a blank space on the wall beside Ciri’s portrait (still makes him laugh every time he sees it), and Barnabas-Basil reminds him of his nearly-nude portrait, currently leaning beside a trunk in his bedroom. “It would be a perfect addition. The hall would then be complete.”

“No, no. I have something commissioned from that portrait artist.”

“Very good.”

Roach needs some exercise anyway. They take off for the artist’s studio.

She’s working on a vast hunk of marble when he arrives. Her chisel is tiny, and he can’t imagine she’s able to accomplish anything like that, but he isn’t an artist. “Geralt! Your portrait, monsieur!” She dashes to an easel and uncovers a massive canvas in a gilded frame.

It is not what Geralt expected.

For one, there’s no way he can transport this _and_ himself on Roach. He needs a wagon. It is life-size.

The man in the painting is as tall as Geralt after all, and not slender, but also not bulky. He looks lean, but broad-shouldered. His hair is brown, fringe swept across his forehead as he looks up with a mischievous smile.

“Why is he standing like that?”

“Contrapposto?”

“Sure.”

“To show how exquisitely he is shaped. See the tone of his chest? The line of his calf, his thigh? See here, the way he reaches for you?”

“Why is he dressed like a…” Geralt isn’t certain how to finish. He’s barely wearing a robe. _What is it with artists and their collective obsession with nudity?_

“He seduces with word and form.”

“Fine.”

“You like it, monsieur?”

“I don’t know much about art, but it seems… nice.”

She beams at him.

The painting doesn’t fit above the weapons rack in the hall. It’s too massive, and it looks ridiculous. Geralt sighs. He carries it into his bedroom and leans it against the wall. He takes the absurd portrait of himself and defeatedly carries it to Barnabas-Basil, who triumphantly hangs it on the wall. “Would you like the other painting in the bedroom?” he asks.

“No. It can just… lean there.”

“I will hang it tomorrow.”

Geralt sighs. He eats dinner. He walks the perimeter of the estate, sword in hand. Nothing stirs in the shadows, and for some reason, it sets him _more_ on edge. He’s restless. _Maybe I should take a ride_ , he thinks. _Get out into the countryside and slay some angry arachnomorphs. Maybe a spriggan or two._

Roach is already stabled. She’s been brushed and given oats—she’s putting on weight, now that he can keep her well-fed and shod, with a roof over her head. He traipses back to the house, instead, and pours himself a glass of Erveluce. He goes into his bedroom and reorganizes his books.

When he turns to his bed, the painting is staring at him. Geralt walks to the left, and then back to the right. The eyes follow him.

It isn’t creepy, though. The man is staring at him, but it’s a funny little stare. It’s like he’s inviting Geralt to hear a secret, to get into some minor trouble. He looks like he’s dressed for some midsummer festival. There are buttercups in the landscape behind him, and Geralt says, “Jaskier. I think I’ll call you Jaskier.” He takes a drink. “Why am I talking out loud?” he asks, aloud. He walks around his bed and sits on the other side. Jaskier watches him. “You aren’t even playing that lute.” It’s dangling from his free hand, and Geralt leans close, inspecting the detail of the fingers wrapped around the instrument’s neck. “Hmm,” Geralt hums. He lets his eyes follow up the fingers to a wrist. The arm is hairy, and it’s unexpectedly detailed, again. The chest is hairy, too, he notices, and that’s unexpected for even more reasons: most of these Romantic artists seem to depict everyone smooth, without scar or hair or shadow. Jaskier isn’t smooth. He looks… He looks real.

He looks _very_ real. He looks like he’s about to take a step toward Geralt. “No wonder, the way she has you posed. That can’t be comfortable.”

Geralt takes another drink. The Erveluce is as good as ever, and Geralt rolls it around his tongue before swallowing. “I guess it’s rude to not offer a glass,” he says. He snorts at himself and shakes his head. “I’m finally losing it.” He looks at Jaskier. “It happens sometimes, when people get old. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though.”

There are a few birds in the background, but no other people. “How nice,” Geralt observes. “Some peace and quiet.” He swallows the last of his wine, sets the glass down beside the bed, and lies back against the pillows. “I know all about peace and quiet.” He closes his eyes. “I didn’t always. But now it’s all I have.”


	2. Chapter 2

No one has visited the bedroom in days.

Jaskier isn’t certain how many days pass. He isn’t entirely certain it is, in fact, days—he isn’t totally sure what a day actually is. He has lived _days_ , of course; he knows he has. He can’t, now that he thinks of it, strictly _remember_ any of them. But he knows he has lived through many days, and weeks, and years, in fact. He has a vague understanding that he is liked, though he can’t think of any friends he knows. He is also vaguely aware that he’s standing in a warm valley, in a pleasant patch of sunlight, holding his lute. Yet he’s also in a bedroom, belonging to a silver-haired man, who calls him Jaskier. He can’t feel anything. Physically, he can’t feel anything.

Emotionally, he feels. He feels… a lot. He thinks of songs to keep himself occupied. He wants to talk to someone. The silver-haired man would do. He was there when Jaskier awoke, days ago, and he spoke to him. His voice was a soft, deep rumble.

Jaskier thinks he could write a song about it.

Yet more days pass. When the door opens next, it isn’t the silver-haired man. Instead, a man in funny-looking glasses strides into the room. He looks closely at Jaskier. “Well then. You are a magnificent piece of work, aren’t you?”

“Thank you,” Jaskier tries to reply. Like last time, he isn’t able to make a sound. “ _Thank you_ ,” he tries again. _Nothing._ “Hmm,” he says. “That will be inconvenient.”

“I know Geralt says you’re fine where you are, but we should hang you on the wall.” _Geralt,_ Jaskier thinks. The man works so close beside him, he can’t make out precisely what he’s doing, but it’s quick. Soon, Jaskier finds himself tilted down, and then up, and then back down before he settles against the wall. He feels nauseated. It’s a good view, though, when he assesses it. The funny fellow stands across from him, arms over his chest, and nods. “Perfect,” he says. “I wish we had space for you in the hall. It’s a shame that Geralt will get to keep you to himself in here. He doesn’t even like art.”

It’s late when the door bursts open. It’s dark, and the man strides in. _Geralt_. Jaskier tries to lean forward to see him better, but he can’t move. He peers closer. “Geralt.” The man makes a small gesture, and the candles light. “Oh,” Jaskier says. “Wow. You must be some sort of sorcerer, huh?”

Geralt steps further into the room and groans. He’s covered in blood. He looks down at himself. “Hm.”

“Oh, oh gods. Are you alright?”

Geralt groans a little as he starts to unbuckle his armor. “Fuck,” he says, tossing it onto the floor.

Jaskier wants to help. “What happened?”

Geralt turns and leans a little against the bed as he slides off his boots. He looks up. “Huh. Barnabas-Basil mounted you.” He snorts. “Not _mounted you,_ mounted you.”

“What?”

“Not that you don’t look willing.”

“Ex _cuse me_?” Jaskier tries to look affronted, but he realizes it probably isn’t doing anything.

“He said he was going to put you up there.” Geralt straightens. “Why am I talking to a painting?”

“Because I’m such a good listener,” Jaskier says. “Everyone thinks so. I mean, I think they do. Because I am a good listener. I just… don’t know who I’ve listened to before.”

“I don’t know if I like you as much up there.” Geralt walks over to him, and Jaskier looks down at him. He’s only about a foot over Geralt’s head, but it isn’t as easy to see him.

“I don’t like it as much, either.”

“Hm,” Geralt frowns. “I can’t look at you as well.” He makes a face and shakes his head. “Why do I want to look at it? It’s just a damn painting.” He strips off his undershirt and tosses it onto the bed, walking away. His body is tapered, thick muscles on his shoulders that narrow to the curve of his lower back. For once, Jaskier is happy he can’t make a sound. He thinks he probably gasps. He can’t remember much, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as gorgeous as Geralt’s skin.

Geralt looks at his fingers and makes an irritated sound. He walks back to the bedroom door and shoves it open. “I need a bath,” he mutters.

Jaskier is fairly certain he doesn’t have a heart, which is confusing because he knows, on a purely intellectual level, that it is a necessary part of life. He knows, because he learned about anatomy at the Academy. He doesn’t remember when, or how, or why, but he knows that he did. Regardless, he doesn’t have one because it isn’t racing as he waits for a bath to be brought to the room. His mind races, but he doesn’t _feel_ anything. He doesn’t feel his chest heave up and down as he panics. He doesn’t feel anything turn over in his stomach as he imagines the bath brought in and Geralt dropping that last bit of clothing.

Emotionally, though, he does.

It’s confusing.

It’s even more confusing when Geralt comes back into the room, wet, wrapped in a towel. He tosses his discarded armor and blood-splattered clothes into the corner and turns to the bed.

“That was quick,” Jaskier chides him. “You need to be taught to have a good soak. Look how stiff you are. I can tell.”

Geralt pulls back the bedclothes. He lowers himself onto the bed a bit gingerly and looks at a scrape across his bicep. “Hm.” He leans back and his eyes drift up to Jaskier. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to… I don’t know. See this?”

“Your arm?”

“This is why I don’t have friends, you know. Not really.”

“Because you get scratches?” He ignores the scars for the present. Obviously, Geralt has a past. _Present_ , he corrects himself. That’s fine. “Okay but where have you been all week?”

“This is what happens when people come to you with vampire problems.”

“Vampire problems?”Then Jaskier notices the medallion. “Ooooh, you’re a _witcher_. That makes so much more sense.” _When did he learn the medallion means he’s a witcher?_ Jaskier wants to shake his head.

“You’d be amazed at what vampire problems there are in Beauclair. It’s a running theme. Still.” He lifts his arms up behind his head, and his pectorals shift. The towel manages, somehow, to stay closed. “You know, Jaskier, sometimes I feel like I’m in a storybook.” He chuckles. “Ciri would think that was priceless.” He stares at Jaskier, face softening. “You’ll probably meet Ciri. My daughter. You’ll like her. You look like you’d get into all sorts of trouble with her.” He huffs. “If you were real. _What the fuck am I doing?_ ”

“No, no, tell me more,” Jaskier says. “Tell me more about your daughter.”

As if he hears, Geralt sighs. But instead of answering, he whispers, “Good night.” He moves his hand again, and the candles go out.

It stays dark for a long time, and Jaskier isn’t certain if he sleeps or not. He isn’t sure how much time passes. The room doesn’t see much light, and Geralt dresses in the dark. Jaskier can barely make him out. He doesn’t say anything before he leaves.

Later, a woman comes and gathers the clothes.

“Talk to me,” Jaskier begs. She doesn’t look up. “Someone talk to me,” he yells.

He sings a song he knows about being alone. _I swam so far to follow your boat, when I gave up, I couldn’t see shore_. He thinks he knows what it feels like to float.

He wonders how long he’s been here.

When the door opens again, he wants to cry.

Geralt lights the candles. “What else can you do?” Jaskier asks. Geralt doesn’t answer. He runs his hand over his bookshelf. “What do you have?”

Geralt takes one, and sinks down onto the bed with it.

“Read me something,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt licks his lips. He looks up at Jaskier. “You’re distracting.”

“Am I? Why’s that? Because I look ready to be _mounted_?” He laughs.

Geralt turns a page and quietly reads. A minute passes, and he turns another page. The sound is soothing. Jaskier relaxes, even if his muscles can’t. They don’t matter. He hums a little tune.

Geralt reads until he falls asleep.

They’re stirred in the morning by the door opening. “Geralt.” The majordomo stands in the doorway, rousing him from his sleep.

“Mm?” Geralt is immediately alert, hand reaching for a sword. Jaskier wants to frown.

“No one should ever have to go immediately for a sword, Geralt. You’re running in the wrong circles.”

“It’s the artist, sir. She’s back.”

“She wants him back?”

“No!” Jaskier calls. Then he stops. _Why not?_ “I’m not ready to leave here,” he says. “I’m still curious.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“She can’t have him back.” Geralt’s voice is a growl, and it… Jaskier tries to look down. He can’t look down at himself.

“I believe there’s something else.”

“Something else?”

“I think she wants you for another job.”

“Hmm.” Geralt straps on his sword belts. He puts out the candles that have burned through the night. He casts a quick look back at Jaskier, and then slams the door on his way out of the room.

It slams, and it stirs the air.

Jaskier tries to look down. He thinks he…

“Gods.” He thinks he felt the air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW in this chapter for a bit of violence and mild description of a wound.

It is just after dawn, and the artist is waiting for Geralt outside his house. “Did you walk here at night?”

“It is good for the soul to be one with the night, Geralt. An artist needs the stars as well as stone.”

“Right.”

“And the portrait? You like it, no?”

“It’s… big…”

Her face _emotes_. It’s something like a smile, but perhaps not. Geralt frowns. That seems to please her, and she smiles. “I have found the next setting—it will be a masterpiece—a landscape like no other.”

“I thought you were a portrait artist.”

“I have many talents, monsieur.”

“Mm.”

“It is to the northeast. A temple in ruin, from the time of the elves. The marble is cracked and fallen, with soft green moss and a patina that suggests another time.”

“A time of elves?”

“Or even older, Geralt. And the sky— _ah_ , look at it here, now, do you see these colors? The violet and copper.”

“Hmm. It’s going to rain.”

“It will be my greatest work yet.”

“I take it you can’t just go paint there?”

“There are men camped among the ruins. They are… not welcoming. They prey on the villagers.”

“Bandits. Should be easy to clear them out.”

“Not so easy. They have a sorcerer with them.”

“Great.”

“I will pay you, monsieur.”

“What, another painting?”

“No, this time I will build for you, a sculpture!”

“What?”

“Cast in bronze—yes! I see it now. I will sculpt a companion piece to the glorious portrait you designed.”

“ _I_ designed?”

“It will stand as tall as you and magnificent.” Her eyes flash. “I must begin now!”

“I may not—”

“I will see you when it is done, Geralt.” She doesn’t even seem to see him as she turns and leaves.

The bandits don’t have _a_ mage. They have _two_ mages. “Fuck,” Geralt mutters, using Aard against them both. He rolls out of the way of the cyclone one has created and slashes one of their grunts in half with his sword. An arrow punctures his thigh, and he winces, and then charges the archer. The bastard’s eyes go wide before he falls. He turns to the next one and asks, “How long you gonna make me wait?” before he swings.

The mages are more difficult. One is easier to cut down than the other. He manages to Axii the guy, and then comes in from the side with his blade. It’s messy, but effective. He digs through their things to make sure they aren’t linked to any larger operation or more sinister plan. He finds some things clearly stolen from the nearby villages, and he meditates for awhile before carrying it off.

A full two days have passed before he drags himself back to Corvo Bianco. He’s exhausted by the time he reaches home. He asks Marlene to prepare him a quick meal, and takes care of Roach while she cooks. When he returns to the main house, it looks like she’s been preparing a feast for days, and he shakes his head, but thanks her. “You must be more careful, Geralt,” she scolds him. “Look at yourself.”

He looks down. “Hmm,” he says. She may be right.

He closes himself in his room to take care of the wounds. As soon as he lights the candles, he finds himself staring again, eyes drawn straight to the portrait. “Why did she have to paint you so big?” he asks Jaskier. He walks over to the painting, taking in the expression. “I haven’t seen you in a few days, and I almost forgot how real you look.” He unclasps his pauldron and cuirass. Jaskier is still staring at him, even at this angle. He looks like he’s beckoning him, and the expression seems suggestive. Geralt imagines him asking to take his hand and follow him off into that field. “I’m not following you there,” Geralt says. “You’d be better off coming here. I think you’d like it. Corvo Bianco is a nice estate, you know.” He continues to shed his armor. “And the bandits—like the ones I just took care of—stay away from here.” He pulls his undershirt over his head and tosses it aside. “Most people stay away from me. If they’re smart.” He sits on the side of the bed. “Because of this.” He finally inspects his leg.

The arrow was easy to pull from his wound, but it left splinters that will hinder his healing. Geralt tears at his trousers to expose the cut. “Fuck.” It doesn’t feel great. He looks around the room. He needs to clean it. He looks up at Jaskier. He needs to take a bath, but now that he’s here, in his room, he doesn’t want to leave. It’s comfortable. “I can bring the tub in here,” he says. He stares at the painting. “You look like you’re trying to lure someone into a bath.” He shakes his head. “This is ridiculous.”

An hour later, he has a full bathtub in the corner of his room. He runs his hand through the water to test the heat. He looks up. “I’m losing it. I own a house—a vineyard, actually—and _employ_ people. I’m taking baths in my own bedroom. And I have art. That I’m talking to because it looks so good.” He sighs. “Why am I still talking to myself?” He glares at Jaskier. “You know, I didn’t do this the whole time I was away fighting for you—I mean, the artist. I don’t usually talk to myself.” He considers. “I do talk to Roach, though. Some people think that’s weird.” He thinks Jaskier’s eyes look a little confused, so he clarifies, “Roach is my horse.” Then he shakes his head. “You can’t look confused—you always look the exact same.”

He peels off his trousers. He takes a flannel, wets it, and dabs at the wound. He very carefully cleans the splinters from it. “That isn’t too bad. Should be better by tomorrow.” It isn’t even bleeding, so he doesn’t worry about it and lowers himself into the hot water. He lets out a soft groan. “Having the majordomo buy the oversized tub was a good idea.” He stretches out and dunks his head. “Yeah. Good idea.”

When he leans back and takes in the room, he realizes Jaskier dominates the space. It’s too big for the small chamber, really. “I wonder what you would say,” Geralt muses. He chuckles. “You’d probably want to know what the fuck you’re doing in a witcher’s bedroom, for a start. The answer is that I want you here—how fucked is that, Jaskier? If I’m out of the house, I only have my horse to talk to, and if I’m in the house, now I have you.” He takes up the soap and starts to lather his arms. “Hasn’t always been like this, you know. I used to have company. That’s what you would want to do, if you were here. I see that little smile on your face.” Geralt snorts. “You’d want to find yourself a nice sorceress to wile away the hours with.” He lathers his chest.

“It would be hard, being in a painting like that. I guess you can’t feel anything, can you? If you could just look out…” He dunks his head under the water, and then starts to soap his hair. “I really am losing my mind talking like this.” He huffs. “Oh well. I guess it was only a matter of time.” He digs in his fingers and scrubs his scalp. “I should stop.” He rolls his eyes at himself, but then finds his eyes drawn right back to Jaskier. “I don’t understand why I can’t stop staring at it. What is it about you?” He plunges his head under the water to rinse, and then surges up out of the tub. He grabs his towel and strides over to the painting. He leans close. His face lines up with Jaskier’s chest, half-covered with his draped robe, and he sees the shades of his flushed skin and the wisp of chest hair. “I can’t even see brushstrokes,” he whispers. He runs his finger against the surface. It’s textured. He leans closer. His fingertip runs across Jaskier’s exposed nipple, and Geralt licks his bottom lip. It’s a tight nub, as if Jaskier has been painted half-aroused. “Hmm.” Geralt lets out a throaty chuckle. “It looks like I haven’t misunderstood that smile at all, have I?” He lets his eyes track down. “I guess a robe can hide all sorts of things.” His fingers trace down the painting. He can’t see the brushstrokes, but he feels the texture of the paint. It’s warm to his touch. “My hands must be cold,” he whispers. He steps back and towels himself off. He pulls back the bedding and sits.

He looks up at Jaskier’s face. “Your eyes look so blue right now.” He smiles. “I don’t know how she did it, but she really did make you…” he trails off. “Ah, fuck, I’m just talking to myself, it doesn’t matter. She really did make you… beautiful.” He looks at Jaskier’s arms, at the dip of his collar bones, the curve of his wrist. His legs look strong. Geralt's hand strokes along his own uninjured leg, and he kneads at his thigh. He can see the line of Jaskier’s quadricep. He draws in a long breath.

Geralt has seen erotic art, of course. Jaskier isn’t erotic art. Still, he feels his cock stir. “You’re just going to keep watching me,” he whispers. He shakes his head.

“I’ve lost it.” He snuffs the candles and slips under the covers. “Goodnight, Jaskier.” He rolls away from him and stares at his bookcase until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is def going to be more than 5 chapters. Whoops!
> 
> Also, for my non-game friends: "How long you gonna make me wait?" is combat dialogue from W3.   
> Additionally, "A Portrait of the Witcher as an Old Man" is a side quest in which Geralt poses for an artist in Toussaint. It is hilarious. And yes, it is inspired by the Joyce book, but in name only. No depressed Catholics are involved, no one visits a brothel, no one leaves chamber pots sitting for days at a time (truly one of the most horrifying things I've ever read), and no one feels like they're flying (maybe Roach). Sometimes I get Portrait and Ulysses mixed up, so, sorry Lit professors who may read this (ha!) if I have any of those memories switched. It's been... a "few" years since I've read them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter suggests spoilers (for the games, everything), though I tried to be vague enough it wouldn't ruin anything for anyone.  
> The backstory provided in this story is from the books, which is a bit different from the show.

Jaskier isn’t out of breath because he doesn’t need to breathe. It’s a strange sensation, knowing that he doesn’t need air. He knows, still, that if he had lungs, his chest would be heaving. He knows that if he had a heart, it would race. His skin feels like it’s on fire.

It was a shock.

It started as a whisper of wind—a draught in the room with each move of the door. He _thought_ he could feel Geralt’s movements shift the air. The room was cool, and Jaskier wasn’t certain if it was nothingness and his imagination, or if it was truly a sensation.

And then. _And then._ The more Geralt spoke, the more certain Jaskier was. He watched him clean his wound, and he felt an ache—something in his chest that was desperate to reach out and comfort or assist. _And then_. Geralt had started to bathe. He started to bathe _and_ talk to Jaskier. Jaskier watched him, wet and soapy, and the feeling moved from his chest. It traveled lower. “Geralt,” Jaskier had said. “You’re doing something… Something is happening.”

But Geralt hadn’t heard, of course.

Instead, Geralt had all but thrown himself out of the tub, dripping wet and fully nude, and stalked across the room toward him like a panther.

_And then_ , Geralt touched him. Jaskier felt it. He felt everything, and every bit of his skin felt like it crackled with energy, like some sort of spell. He couldn’t move, but he throbbed with need. “No,” he told Geralt, “don’t stop! Don’t turn away—come back over here. Do it again. More, Geralt, please…”

He saw Geralt’s cock start to harden before he turned his back, and it sent something else running through Jaskier. But he couldn’t move, he could only ache.

When he wakes, he realizes he slept. The room is dark. The bed is empty.

Later, the majordomo comes to collect the tub. A girl comes, still later, and cleans.

He sleeps twice more before Geralt returns. He’s dressed casual, now, and barefoot. He pulls another book from the shelf.

“Look at me,” Jaskier says. “Geralt…”

Geralt doesn’t look at him. He sits on the bed and leans back on the pillows and opens it.

“What are you reading?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt doesn’t look up. He can’t hear him. He turns the page.

He reads for nearly an hour before he sets it aside and sighs. And then he finally looks up. “I wonder if you know anything about history,” he says.

“Of course I do,” Jaskier tells him.

“Probably not. If you were real, that is. She said you’re a musician.”

“Musicians need to know about history so they can tell stories. You should hear my ballads, Geralt.”

Geralt shakes his head. “A musician. Why did I let her paint me a musician? I should’ve had her paint some half-dressed dryad.” Geralt smirks. “I should tell you about when I met Ciri.”

“Your daughter? Why didn’t you—”

“Ciri was a child surprise. Her parents... _well_... she lived with her grandmother.” He leans back with his arms crossed behind his head. “They told her she was going to have to marry some snot-nosed kid—a prince from a neighboring kingdom—and she ran away. And in true Ciri fashion, she ran into Brokilon Forest.”

“Oh shit. They didn’t take her?”

“You wouldn’t know, but that’s a forest where the dryads live.”

“Of course I know that, you oaf.”

“Anyway, I happened to be passing through Brokilon to meet with Eithné—their queen.”

“Whatever the fuck for? Did you _want_ to die?”

“And that’s where I found her.” He smiles. “Of course, she went back home after that. I didn’t meet her again until Nilfgaard sacked Cintra. Another child surprise.” He snorts. “Destiny again.” He looks up at Jaskier. “Do you believe in destiny?”

“Is it my destiny to watch you like this?”

“Maybe I was destined to help that damned artist, and she was destined to make me… a friend.” He rolls his eyes. “This is why I don’t have friends, Jaskier—you aren’t a friend if you can’t talk back.”

“Oh, I’m talking back. You just aren’t listening. I wonder if you could hear me if you listened.”

“The _last time_ I visited Brokilon was under different circumstances. You know they need men, the dryads. They’re a female people, but needs must to, you know…”

“Procreate?”

“They were disappointed.”

“How could anyone ever be disappointed in you? You’re gorgeous.”

“Because I’m sterile.”

“Oh.”

“Not for lack of trying, of course.” He looks a bit satisfied with himself.

“Geralt, you naughty man.” It sends that wave of sensation through Jaskier again. “Mmm,” he hums, “I can just imagine you, deep in a wild forest hut, surrounded by dryads trying to work every drop out of your body. What did they do to you? Did they use their mouths, too, or just—” He stops at the sight of Geralt unfastening his trousers. “Oh, fuck. Oh. _Oh._ ”

“I can imagine the circumstances different, if it was you.” Geralt’s mouth is still curved into a soft smile. “You look… virile. I think you’re probably a voracious lover, aren’t you?” He rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck, looking up at Jaskier. "You have that..." He licks his lips.

“Oh, fuck yes I am. I mean, I think I am. Yes, I am.” Jaskier's hand is stretched toward him, but he can't touch. He can't lean down and take hold of Geralt's arm or shoulder, or the back of his neck.

Something in the room feels different. The air feels like a storm is on the horizon, but everything is still and waiting. "What am I doing?" Geralt whispers.

Geralt’s hand dips into his trousers and he pulls himself out. Jaskier groans. “Ahh, _fuck_ , Geralt.”

It’s stiff, and massive, and flushed pink. “They’d take you deep into the heart of the forest, and take you into one of their Trees. They would strip you out of that flimsy robe, and press you down onto their bedding.” His hand moves and he strokes himself.

“ _Fuck, fuck, Geralt_.” Jaskier’s body has an almost urgent need. It’s a painful need. He feels desperate.

“Dryads are efficient mates, as a rule. But they would take their time with you—how couldn’t they? They’d want to touch.” Geralt shifts himself to the edge of the bed and looks up at Jaskier. “She would press her face against your chest to feel your heartbeat.”

“Gods…”

“She would take you in her hands and lower herself onto you, and you would feel the tight, wet, heat of her around your cock.” He continues to stroke himself. “And she would ride you, taking her pleasure…” His hand speeds.

“Sounds like this is spoken from experience.” Jaskier realizes his voice is breathless, and it doesn’t make sense, but neither does the way his body tingles. It’s like the prick of a thousand needles.

“She would clench around you as she came, and it would pull you over the edge, too. You’d spend, deep in her. _Nngh_ , yeah…” He fucks into his fist. “And then,” he gasps, “they’d do it over, _fuck_ , and over again.”

Jaskier watches as he comes. He keeps his eyes open, locked on Jaskier’s, and Jaskier _really_ wishes he could breathe because he doesn’t need to, but his chest is so tight he feels like he’s dying.

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed for a long time. Finally, he strips off his shirt and uses it to clean up.

“Please tell me,” Jaskier whispers. “Tell me if it was the dryad or me.”

Geralt doesn’t hear him. He is quiet. He tosses his clothes to the side and slips under the covers. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me? I’m in a painting!”

“You’re like a kid.” He scrubs his hands over his face.

“Oh, you mean _you_. There’s nothing wrong with you, Geralt.”

“You don’t need any of this. This isn’t you.”

“You don’t _need_ wine, either, but who would want to live without it?” Jaskier says it without considering that he, himself, can’t drink anything. _But I have… I know I have_.

“I used to read a lot more about history,” Geralt says. “I think after everything that happened before I came here, with the spheres and the Wild Hunt and—I wish you just knew. It isn’t something I’d like to revisit.”

His words are wistful, like a wish or a prayer. They make Jaskier's head spin. He feels sick to his non-existent stomach. His mind floods with images. “That… How do I know… Why do I know about…” It hurts. He suddenly knows about Ciri and the Wild Hunt and… “Geralt, something is happening.” He wants to yell. He wants to shout until Geralt hears him. “What did you just do?”

“I don’t like to read about history as much anymore.”

Jaskier wants to shake his head. He wants to close his eyes and rest. “Then what do you like?” he asks instead. He wants to rub his temples. He wants to sit down and let his mind catch up.

“I find these books sometimes, different places. Folk stories.” Geralt chuckles. “Romances, sometimes. Stories of noble knights.” He scoffs.

“Like you’re _not_ noble. Helping some artist who can only pay you in paintings. Not to mention everything else you’ve done.”

“I am not some noble knight, Jaskier. If I keep talking to you like the lunatic I clearly am, you’ll see that. Obviously, based on what I did earlier.”

“I liked it.” Jaskier’s too exhausted to not be honest. “And you can’t hear me anyway.”

“I’m supposed to kill monsters, but I’m nearly a monster myself.”

“You are nothing like a monster, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier wants him to hear. “I know you. And you aren’t a monster at all.”

It’s all he can manage before his mind shuts down from the exhaustion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c'est angst
> 
> A short chapter, but important for growth.gif

The sun rises as Geralt walks the perimeter of Corvo Bianco. It rained, and the landscape glitters in the early light. The scent clings to the air, and Geralt has to stop and let himself take it in.

The workers are stirring. Fires are lit in their huts as they prepare for the day. A few are just now returning home from nights spent with bottle, company, or both. Geralt stops on the terrace beside the house and looks out over the valley. He grips the balustrade and breathes deep.

Geralt isn’t a young man. He has lived far longer than most could wish for, and he doesn’t waste time on what-if or looking back. His life is what it is, and that has turned, unexpectedly, to relative luxury. He has fulfilled the role destiny gave him, he has a legacy, and he has friends, even if they are scattered across the Continent.

He doesn’t _need_ anything else.

The mists roll away as the sun’s orange and gold rays break over the horizon and bathe the land in light. The gold becomes coral, and then pink and violet before transforming into a clear blue.

He doesn’t _need_ anyone. He already has far more here than he needs. The stirring he feels, late at night, in his room, is simply a restlessness he needs to purge from his system. He should ride east, toward the mountains. It’s a wild land, with monsters plenty. There won’t be coin, but he can remind himself who he is.

Mind made up, he goes into the house to tell the majordomo he’ll be away. He goes into his room to gather his things.

The bed hasn’t been made, and when he stares down at it, he shakes his head. He looks up at the Jaskier painting.

The troubadour’s expression is the same as always, of course, but his eyes almost seem more penetrative. His smile seems less suggestive, and softer. Geralt puts on his armor and puts together a pack. The room seems even quieter than normal.

“I’m going,” Geralt says. “I’m just going to go and get this out of my system.” He steps close and puts his hand flat on Jaskier’s chest. It’s warm again—warmer even than before. Geralt slides his hand up to Jaskier’s face. “I just need to do some work and clear my mind to remind myself I don’t need… I don’t need anyone.”

He steps back, and his hand feels drawn back to the warmth. “It must be from the walls.” He frowns, looking at his fingertips. He looks into Jaskier’s eyes, and they look sad, somehow. The smile looks fragile. “I think that if you were real, you would have endless stories, wouldn’t you? If you were truly the greatest troubadour in Toussaint and all that. You’d want to come with me, wouldn’t you? You’d want to ride along so you could write ballads about heroic fights.” Geralt huffs. “Well let me tell you, Jaskier. It isn’t heroic. It’s hard, and messy, and painful, and that’s why I don’t have someone… like you… around me. It isn’t who I am.” He reaches out again, and presses his palm to the warmth of the painting, resting it against Jaskier’s hip. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the texture of the gauzy robe against his skin. He shakes his head. “You aren’t real, and I don’t need you anyway.”

He closes the trunk, snuffs the candles, and leaves.

Roach looks reproachful as he saddles her. “You don’t know anything about it,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

He rides for weeks.

There are monsters in the mountains. The people he encounters live hard lives. They have a simple kind of happiness, far different than what he’s used to. He helps them ease their troubles.

At night, they offer him shelter, and he sees the way they find community, further and further from civilization. He meditates by firelight. Sometimes, he shares a bed.

The terrain gets more difficult to traverse, but the people don’t change: humans and non-humans are alike everywhere, even this far beyond the edge of his world. They come together with food, drink, or both.

And then one night, there is music.

The cabin isn’t a tavern, but it’s more than a simple house. They’ve centered their community around the largest, sturdiest house, and dried mountain herbs hang from rough timber beams. There’s a massive hearth with a bubbling kettle, a smooth stone floor, and kegs of refreshment. A fetching half-elf sings. She hasn’t any accompaniment, she just stands on a stool and sings her songs to the room full of shaggy mountain dwellers. Geralt’s face is still streaked with blood from a dracolizard, or perhaps himself. It was a nasty fight, and they’re here together because they’re grateful. They have little among the community, but the food tonight is plentiful, and the half-elf’s eyes have that glint.

They remind him of Jaskier’s eyes.

She comes to his table after her song, and she greets him. Her eyes are not as blue as his Jaskier’s, but they are blue. “Did you like my song?” she asks.

“I don’t know much about music.” She blushes, and he feels embarrassed. “But it sounded good to me.” She smiles at that, and it’s an invitation. It isn’t the same smile as his painting. “Have you always lived here?” he asks.

“My whole life,” she answers. “I’ve been waiting for someone to take me away.”

Geralt takes a drink of bitter ale. “Mmm, take it from an old man. You’ll wait the rest of your life if you put that responsibility on anyone but yourself.”

She takes a sip from his flagon. “So, I should just take what I want?”

Geralt lets out a small chuckle. He watches her eyes roam over him. He nods. “You should.” He stands. “But I’m not what you want.”

“What if you are?”

Her eyes are a beautiful blue-green, like a deep mountain lake. Her hair is fair. _Maybe if they were sapphire and quicksilver, and her hair was so deep a brown, it could be black._ He sees her moisten her lips. “I’m not. You want someone who sees only you.” He smiles. “And you’ll find it. But it isn’t me.”

Later, he lies awake on a pallet in the stable loft, determined to get real sleep. Roach is asleep. He wishes he had someone to talk to. He wonders if the comfort of the painting is what made his sleep so restful before he left.

“I can’t believe I miss a fucking painting.” He sighs and tries to pull his mind into a meditative state. “I wonder what he would say back.” He can’t help wondering what Jaskier would say back.

_Jaskier_ , he thinks, _would take what he wanted. The most talented troubadour in Toussaint, Redania, Temeria, and Nilfgaard would be indefatigable, searching for the next story to tell. He would extract the remarkable from even the most mundane. He would turn slaying a dracolizard into a story worth telling for generations._ Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. _He must be fearless, to track those stories down._ He wonders what Jaskier would do if he were here, tonight.

Given that smile, of course, he’d probably be off with the half-elf.

Geralt tries to repress the curiosity. “You came here to get away from it. You aren’t _lacking_ ,” he whispers. He isn’t; he could be in the warm bed of the singer right now.

He knows he has everything he needs. Yet it increasingly feels like he could have more anyway—not because he needs it, but because he just wants it.

“What?” he asks himself. “You want the man in the painting?”

He stares at the rafters for a long time.

Finally, he whispers, “Yes. I want him to be real.”

And then, he sleeps.

In the morning, still groggy with a bone-deep weariness, he tightens Roach’s tack and leads her west. He’s gone before the locals rise.

The road is perilous, but the Path seems easier, somehow. He’s headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count keeps going up. Sorry.  
> Quick, longer update to make up for the short one before.
> 
> Más angst, but then...

Everything is dark. Jaskier can’t cry, but he is terrified. He is alone. “He left,” he whispers. “He left.” He wants to kneel down, to curl into a ball and rock himself. His finger had almost felt ready to crook, and now it feels like it’s frozen and numb.

When he realizes he cannot feel his toes, he knows that he should be horrified. He knows he should yell and rage against the oblivion that lurks in his periphery. He should find a way. He knows he is clever and cunning; he should be able to do something—anything—to stop the atrophy.

The room goes out of focus. When the door opens, days after Geralt leaves, he forces himself to focus on the shape that enters. It’s a young girl, and she changes the bedding and straightens the shelves. Jaskier doesn’t try to be heard. Watching her exhausts him, and he sleeps, when she leaves, for what must be days.

Days pass. The room is darker. The door opens again, and Jaskier can barely muster the strength to see who enters. It’s another maid, or perhaps the same one. She dusts and sweeps, and airs the space. When she dusts him, he can feel nothing more than a feather-light brush. He wants to call out to her, to ask to be seen. He wonders, with the energy he has, if he’s the only painting in the world to have a soul.

Weeks pass. He no longer feels anguish, but the sorrow runs deep. He is the last star before sunrise on a moonless night. It doesn’t streak through the sky, but quietly fades, and no one is watching, so no one will see.

He tries to form a thought. He thinks, _Maybe someone will find me._ He wonders if he has a soul after all, and if oblivion swallows him, what will happen to his mind. Will he be awake in the darkness? Will he know he has been lost?

Will he remember that he was forgotten?

The darkness looms. “I would have liked,” he whispers, “to see him again, one more time before I go.”

He closes himself off and lets go.

He falls. It feels like leagues, an endless drop. He stops quick, and then the pain comes.

Every inch of Jaskier’s body burns. It’s a sharp pain, heat and pressure. He cries out with it. There’s little point in repressing his response. He’s been abandoned, anyway, just as he started to feel like he could almost begin to move, and now he feels like his awareness has been stripped from him and replaced with nothing but pain.

“This is it,” he manages to bite out, “I’m dying. He left me, and now I’ll be no more. I’ll just be a painting on a wall, nothing more.” He tries to see the room, but everything is dark.

The sharp burn lingers, white hot and overwhelming, but he can do nothing to avoid it. He can’t curl into himself or stretch himself out. He can only try to center his awareness on it. _Pain,_ he tells himself, _is better than nothing._ And then it fades. Hours pass and it turns to an ache. _I’m dying_. _He’s forgetting._ It’s so much worse that the soft arms of oblivion and nothing he expected.

It takes time, and Jaskier doesn’t know how long it is, but eventually, the pain recedes completely.

Somehow, despite that, he’s still there. He is blind. He hears nothing. He feels like he’s floating in empty space, and then, he feels a pressure on the soles of his feet, followed by a squeeze that seems to cover him. This presence isn’t the same pain as before, but it’s as if every bit of his body is packed tight or coated with something. There’s too much of it; he has felt too much. He lets himself be taken, again, by sleep.

Jaskier is awakened by a tapping. He brings himself to awareness, and realizes he sees light, but only faint shapes. The light grows brighter, and then it is as if a veil is removed. The light is nearly blinding. He’s standing in a sun-filled room, and a woman is there, humming as she works. She’s cleaning him off, and he tries to look down, but his eyes won’t move far enough. The woman hums as she works, and Jaskier is fairly certain he wrote the song in her throat.

When she finishes her task, she walks to the table in front of him and proceeds to complete the same work to a long, slender arm.

Jaskier realizes that somehow, he knows the arm is his.

“Oh,” he says. “You’re the artist.”

She seems meditative as she works, removing the last of the ceramic from his arm. Jaskier has a vague understanding of how to cast a bronze sculpture; once again, he isn’t certain where the knowledge comes from, but it’s there.

She works late into the night. Sometimes she takes breaks and scrapes at the hunk of marble beside him. It is obviously a much slower process. Jaskier wonders what it will become.

He wonders if he’ll meet someone new, now. If he’s in a new form, will he go to a new home? Will he be left on a plinth in Beauclair, for birds to roost and shit on, and for drunks to vomit at his feet?

The artist is finishing his patina when she is interrupted. She has toiled over him for countless days, and Jaskier has drifted through various states of discomfort as she has prodded and adjusted. He’s starting to relax, despite the lingering sadness.

The artist talks to him, too, sometimes, but it’s nothing like Geralt’s intense stare. It’s nothing like the longing in his voice.

Until he appears. The door abruptly swings open, and it takes a moment for Jaskier’s eyes to adjust. “Geralt!”

The artist speaks at the same time. “Ah, Monsieur Witcher, you have returned from your journey east! Did you find what you were looking for?”

Geralt stops in his tracks and stares at Jaskier. “How…”

“I told you that I would make you a sculpture, no? You were away for just enough time.”

“You did, but…”

“And I said it would be a companion for your painting. See?”

“I see.”

“He is the same pose, the contrapposto you so like.” She runs her hand along his arm. “He is reaching out to beckon you, still, and see, down here, he holds his lute.”

“So, he still can’t play it.”

“He can play it, I told you! He is the most celebrated troubadour—”

“In Toussaint, Redania, yeah, yeah.”

Jaskier wants to reach for him. “You came back for me,” he whispers. “I thought you left.”

“He is ready to take, but you will need a cart.”

“Mm.” Geralt steps close to Jaskier. He is eye-level now, and Geralt leans close. “How did you…” His fingers find Jaskier’s cheek, and it makes Jaskier want to weep. His eyes burn, but no tears can fall.

“You like him.”

“How can metal look so real?”

“Sometimes it is as if the gods are the artists and I am but a medium.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“You scoff, but you see. I molded him, but barely remember half. Your troubadour is divine.”

Geralt runs a finger along his arm, and it sends a wave of sensation through Jaskier’s body. “He is something.”

Geralt carries him into the house. He grunts as he puts him down in the hall.

“What is this?” Barnabas-Basil asks.

“It’s a statue.”

“I see that, sir.” Jaskier sees him do a double-take, which he smoothly covers by adjusting his glasses. He clears his throat. “It is a perfect match for the troubadour portrait.” He steps close to Jaskier and reaches out to him.

“Don’t touch him,” Geralt growls. It makes the warmth in Jaskier’s stomach bloom.

“Indeed. Where shall you place it? It would look magnificent in the flower garden.”

“Bedroom,” Jaskier argues. “I would look magnificent in the bedroom. Please. Tell me where you’ve been. Tell me about it, so I can write the songs.”

Geralt frowns. “Hmm.”

“The colors of the patina against the backdrop of red and pink roses would truly be magnificent. And we have no room inside the house, unless you mean to put him upstairs in the guest room.”

Geralt hums again, with a thoughtful rasp. “I still need to decide.”

“It is early yet. We will prepare a meal.”

Geralt leaves him in the hall, and he takes the opportunity to truly look around. It’s a remarkable house, that somehow suits Geralt, his rough edges and his gentleness. There is more art around the hall: a striking couple, a hilariously angry little girl who must be Ciri, and a rather stunning portrait of Geralt, nude on horseback, having heroically slain a griffin. There are also weapons and armor racks, trays of fruit and bread, bottles and carafes, and well-placed candelabras.

Geralt returns sans armor. He lifts Jaskier again, and he gets another quick, uneven view of the estate as he is carried to the rear of the house, outside. Geralt sets him on the hillside beside a chaise and a side table, overlooking a valley full of herbs and fruit and other things Jaskier can’t make out. “Is that the flower garden?” he asks. It’s a sort of greenhouse or arbor—a half-ruined glasshouse magnificently remade with riotous color and bloom. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, refusing to let his voice break, even if Geralt can't hear. “You… You came back. And you brought me here. And it’s so, so beautiful.” He wishes he could look him in the eye, but they’re beside each other, taking in the same view.

As if he knows, Geralt steps around him, into his view. “I have to see you,” he whispers. He casts a fleeting look around to confirm they’re alone. “I don’t know how she made you even more real, but…” He presses his hands against Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier almost cries out with the simple pleasure of a warm hand on him. “You’re warm like this, too.” He sighs. His hand trails down and toys with the lines of the edge of his draped garment, and it makes Jaskier's body want to quiver. “It makes no sense,” Geralt whispers. “But the whole time I was gone, I kept thinking what you’d think of every interaction I had, every trouble I came across. And it seemed like I knew. It felt like I knew exactly what you’d say.” He gives a small smile. “I’m glad your smile is back, Jaskier. I thought you’d like this view.”

“I do,” Jaskier whispers. “I was afraid… I feared you weren’t coming back.”

Geralt stays until the sun sets, quiet and pensive. “Tomorrow I think I’ll tell you about my journey. I imagine you’ll want to hear about it for your songs.” He lets out a slow breath and licks his lips. “I wish I could hear your songs. I wish you were real, Jaskier. I wish I could hear what you think of this view."

“I think it’s beautiful,” Jaskier says, “but not as beautiful as your body.” The sky has turned amber, and everything is gold. “I hate that you had to leave to learn you want me to be real. I wish I could scream at you about it. But I’m just so relieved I can feel you. I want to have pride, but I’d give up that, too, to hold you in my arms.”

"I...” Geralt takes a deep breath. "I don't know why I feel... I need to, but... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left." They stand there, together, as the stars come to life.

It’s late when Geralt goes in to sleep. Jaskier watches the moon rise over the valley. He falls asleep no longer afraid.


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt leans back on the chaise behind his house and turns a page of the book he’s reading. It’s a comically bad romance about a knight trying to hunt a dragon. When he looks up, Jaskier is visible over the top edge of the cover. Geralt snorts a small laugh. “This author doesn’t know anything at all about dragons.”

Jaskier is half-turned away, as if he could look at Geralt and across the valley at once. Geralt wonders if he would want to know more. He thinks he would have a story or two about dragons of his own, surely. Geralt rests the book on his chest. “You’d know about dragons—you’d have to, to sing about them.” He looks down at the book. “On the other hand, I guess you could make it up like this fool.” He takes in Jaskier’s grin. “You look sly enough to find yourself crossing paths with one. I should tell you about when I met Borch Three Jackdaws—the dragon Villentretenmerth. That was an interesting journey. I damn neared died more than once.” He shakes his head. “Humans, and their foolish obsession with treasure and titles.” He gestures to the hillside. “You know how many times this vineyard has changed hands? And even before that, the land had different stewards. But some people want to stake claim, like that’ll bring them happiness.” He picks the book back up. “You’d know that, as a troubadour.” He smiles. “You’d know it isn’t something you own.”

It becomes something of a habit. Geralt lounges on the chaise like a man of leisure, talking in a low voice to a statue. He imagines what Jaskier would say back. It amuses him, to piece together Jaskier’s personality. He finds that he thinks the troubadour would disagree with him on some counts, and agree with others. He hasn’t had a friend quite like that in long time, if ever. “I wonder how my life would have been different,” he muses, “if you had been with me all along.”

It would be better, he knows. He continues, “I would’ve had someone to tell me when I was being stupid. How would you put it? You’d use some expression. You’d ask me if I’d lost my marbles, probably, when I tried to be heroic. And you—you’d probably get yourself into all sorts of trouble, constantly.”

Midsummer is long past, but the heat lingers, even after the sun sets. Sometimes, Geralt just sits on the chaise and stares at Jaskier’s statue. He keeps his bedroom dark, almost always. It doesn’t seem like too much, to sit beside his shape and softly talk, as if he’s telling his life story to a poet. On some level, Geralt rationalizes, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Another month passes. It’s difficult to look at the painting. There’s something mournful that underlies the wicked invitation in Jaskier’s smile. There’s something desperate in the way he reaches forward.

More and more, Geralt imagines Jaskier is talking back. Jaskier, in his mind, has a more distinct voice every day. He’s full of wit and snark, and remarkably erudite despite a crass sense of humor that would suit the most rustic campfire or tavern.

Sometimes, when the wind blows, Geralt imagines he hears Jaskier sing.

The villagers come less often, as time goes by. They pay him with anything they have to lift curses or slay monsters.

When winter comes, Geralt realizes the hillside view is less appealing. He considers asking the artist if there’s anything special he needs to do for the statue in the cold. The winter is mild, but he knows the elements can’t be good for the metal, regardless.

It’s also uncomfortable for Geralt. He takes a contract to clear a beann'shie from a temple ruin to the south. She’s crafty, and it takes him three days to travel there, track her down, and finish it. When he returns home, he doesn’t care to sit in the winter chill; there’s a warm house right there.

Eventually, he makes up his mind. He brings Jaskier inside. Barnabas-Basil doesn’t remark on it other than a suggestion he would look well in place of one of Geralt’s armor racks. “It’s just temporary,” Geralt says. “I don’t want to move everything around. I’ll just put him in the corner of my room.”

The nights are longer, in winter. No one seems to notice or care if he spends more time in his room. He spends the days maintaining the estate, crafting potions, and other small business. At night, he takes to recording the day’s work in a ledger, speaking aloud as he does.

He thinks it would be nice to have someone ask him about it. He thinks that if Jaskier could speak, he would.

Jaskier’s painting seems less vibrant when his statue is there. The eyes still seem sad.

It’s nearly spring when he can’t take it any longer. He stands in front of the sculpture and stares at him. He looks back at the painting to compare. “You weren’t sad before,” he whispers. He turns back. “How can your smile look sad?” He reaches out and touches his cheek.

The bronze is warm to his touch, and Geralt sucks in a breath. There is no sunlight to explain the warmth, no radiant heat from stone or brick. “How…” He lets his hand trace along his face, down his neck, and then reaches around his outstretched arm to clasp his shoulder. He leans close. “You’re so warm, it’s like you’re real in there.”

He tries to think of the last time he felt the touch of a warm body against his. He realizes it has been months. He closes his eyes and tilts his head so that his forehead presses against Jaskier’s. His fingers tighten their grip on Jaskier’s shoulder. He rests his other hand on Jaskier’s hand, feeling the detailed knuckles curled around the lute. He squeezes his eyes shut and traces his fingernails, his wrist, and his forearm. Then he steps even closer, pressing his chest against the warm metal. He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s back and lets his fingers explore the dip of his back.

“Why can’t you be real?” he whispers. “I wish you were real. You don’t know how much I wish you were real.”

Geralt knows, on some level, that the bronze should be cool. Perhaps he should be concerned—he’s seen statues animate and try to kill him before (memorably quite recently, in fact, in a historical reenactment gone wrong).

Instead of being concerned, Geralt lets himself press against Jaskier, just once, each day. He’s seen all manner of creatures with strange habits in his lifetime. It doesn’t hurt anyone to absorb warmth from a statue, he rationalizes. It’s no one’s business but his own.

More and more, when he does, if he quietly presses his head to Jaskier’s, he almost thinks he can hear him sigh. More and more, if he closes his eyes tight enough, it almost feels like fabric beneath his fingers. It almost feels like skin against his hand.

Another month passes. And another.

“You must be tired of this,” he says, sleepily. He sits on the end of his bed and looks at Jaskier. “I just talk to you, every day, about whatever boring bullshit I’ve done. I’ll bet you wish you could be anywhere else, with anyone else, don’t you?”

He takes in the familiar smile. It seems less melancholic tonight—nearly as wicked as it was when the artist finished him. “Hmm,” Geralt says. “It’ll be Beltane in a few nights. It looks like the spirit has already found you.”

He stares at him for a long time. Jaskier seems to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. “You really are a thing of wonder, you know that?” He wonders if Jaskier would think anything at all similar about him.

He feels his body wake. “I wish you would think that about me, too.” He feels a sort of static in the room, like if he touched metal, it would spark. It’s that feeling he knows before a storm, when the sky is about to erupt with lightning. “I wonder what you would do, if you could move, right now.” Geralt licks his lips. “With me, this time. No dryads, no nymphs, nothing but me. I wonder if you would want…” He pulls his shirt off. It’s time for bed, anyway. “I know what I would do, if you wanted it. Only if you wanted it. But if you did… I’m dying to know what you look like without that ridiculous robe.” He stands up and takes a step toward Jaskier. “If you were here, on Beltane, there would be bonfires to mark the change of the seasons, and everyone would come together with abandon—that’s what they do, you know. And everyone would want you. They’d see your skin, just barely covered, and they’d beg to see more. I’d beg to see more.” He unties his trousers and slides them down. He steps out of them. He’s already hard.

“Jaskier,” he whispers. “I wish I knew what you’d want. In my mind, at night, I dream that you would ignore them. And you’d come to me, instead.” His voice is half broken, like a confession. He closes a fist around his cock and grips himself tight. “Gods only know why you’d want me over anyone else…” He takes another step toward Jaskier and strokes himself. “But Beltane, Jaskier,” his breath catches, “is a night for giving yourself up. Losing yourself in it.” He spits in his hand and speeds his pace. “With abandon, under the open sky. There would be, _mmmf_ , there would be others, other people, in twos and threes, around us. You would hear them.” He grips Jaskier’s arm, and it pulls a moan from his throat. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? You would like them to hear you, too. You’d want everyone to know what noises you make— _fuck I want to_ —you would…” He tilts his head forward again, so that his forehead is buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. He teases himself, imagining it. He can see, in his mind, Jaskier riding him, head tossed back in pleasure, throat exposed. “I would give you everything, Jaskier. I would…” He bites his lip, pumping his fist, relentless. “I would love you.” His labored breath against Jaskier makes it seem like he, too, is whimpering. Geralt shakes, and it almost feels like Jaskier, too, shudders. And as he pulls back and spends on his hand, it’s as if Jaskier is crying his name out with his own pleasure.

But it’s impossible. Jaskier is still there, frozen, smiling at him. The smile is cruel and bittersweet. Geralt cleans himself up and goes to sleep without another word.

He uses Igni to light the candles when he wakes. The light pushes the shadows from the room, and his treacherous eyes go immediately to Jaskier.

“What…” Geralt is out of the bed in an instant. _Not right_ , he thinks. _Something isn’t right._ “Jaskier?” He says his name as if that has ever provoked a response in the past. He looks at the painting. It’s lifeless. He looks at the statue. Everything is in its place. It’s there, the bronze, shaped perfectly by the artist. Geralt touches his arm.

It’s cold.

“No,” Geralt whispers.

He stares at his empty hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops! More angst happened!
> 
> I'll have the final chapter up soon. Promise. <3


	8. Chapter 8

For a moment, everything goes black again. Jaskier feels raw, like he is going to split apart. His body aches with desire, still warm where Geralt has touched him, and throbbing where he wants to be touched. His vision goes black, and he is floating.

“No,” he tries to call, but his voice sounds broken in his mind. “No!” He tries again and again. “Geralt!”

His vision returns slowly, like light through pinholes that grow and merge. He’s standing in the artist’s studio, and she has lanterns lit. She is smoothing a cloth along his arm, and then she stops and looks at him.

His arm is white and smooth, polished to a shine. “I’m… the—”

“Finally.” Her voice is triumphant. Her eyes sweep over him, from the top of his head, to the outstretched hand, down to his lute and his feet. A smile overtakes her face, and she almost looks awestruck, as if she can’t quite believe what she has made. “You are perfect.”

“The marble…” Jaskier says, stunned. “You’ve been working on for me for months.” He thinks back. Geralt said it is nearly Beltane, and it was summer, before, when he was here the last time. “You were working on me then…”

She smooths the cloth across his face. “Absolutely perfect.”

“But… did Geralt do something else? Where am I going?” The fear returns. He tries to think—he knows he has been at least somewhat present in the painting, even as he has been conscious as the bronze. He tries to shut himself off to the artist, to go back. “Geralt. Geralt.” He repeats the name like a mantra. It makes his head ache, but has no other effect. “But… But he said he would love me,” he whispers. “And I would love him. I would love him, too.”

He doesn’t sleep. He stands in the darkened, quiet studio after the artist leaves. He wants to weep, but his eyes can’t, even as marble.

The artist wears a flower crown when she opens her studio in the morning. She sighs when she sees him. “Incredible,” she says.

“You can’t be surprised—you made me. Three times.” He tries to be defiant, despite his inevitable silence. He tries to be fearless. “Like Geralt would be,” he whispers. “This is just a problem to find a solution to.” If he can’t think his way out of it, he’ll have to find a way to fight. He can’t panic.

The artist tosses a canvas drape over him and binds it. “Hey!” Jaskier yells, “What the fuck are you doing? TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE DOING WITH ME!”

He feels himself be tilted and shifted, and then lifted and bound even tighter. He hears a horse and wagon wheels, and then he’s moving.

The journey is long. Jaskier wonders if they are traveling far, or if they are moving slowly. _How big is Toussaint?_ he wonders.

When they stop, Jaskier can tell it’s dark. There are several voices, and he’s moved, again. “Blessings of the season on you,” he hears the artist say. He hears greetings of kisses and vigorous hugs.

“Is this it? Is it finished?” a man asks.

“It is—you won’t believe,” she tells him. “Here, help me uncover him.”

The canvas is pulled away to reveal the inside of a small house. Massive paintings cover the walls, and the group of people wear paint and clay-streaked clothes. There’s a collective gasp, and the man says, “This is a masterpiece. You have to take him to the Palace. The duchess will pay you a fortune for such magnificent work.”

“No, no, no don’t take me to the Palace,” Jaskier protests. “Take me somewhere he’ll find me, please!”

“I have something less grand in mind,” the artist demurs, “but no less worthy. But come, let us sit by the fire—nearly the last before Beltane.” She adjusts her flower crown with a wink, and they turn to each other with wine and friendship.

Jaskier watches them and listens. “The painting of the Elven ruins is your greatest yet, chérie,” one of the women declares. “It is so good the bandits were cleared.”

A man nods. “With the countryside free of monsters and rogues, we can wander with our watercolors and not worry about a premature end or loss of limb!”

The artist refills her glass. “We are all so fortunate for the Witcher of Corvo Bianco.”

The other woman giggles. “We certainly are. If we could only see a bit more of him now and then…”

The groups sighs, collectively. This time, Jaskier is a part of the group.

He is loaded into the cart again in the morning. The binding feels tighter today, and every bump on the path seems to agitate his anxiety.

It’s late, once more, when they stop. Jaskier hears the artist’s footsteps, and then knocking. It’s followed by muffled voices, and he strains to hear, to make out anything. Finally, he feels the ropes go slack, and he is gently pulled from the cart. The canvas covering is removed.

“Barnabas,” he gasps.

“He has been gone these past two days, in a foul temper,” Barnabas-Basil tells the artist. “Something under his skin. It seems he gets this way, every so often. He needs a companion. Someone to keep his mind from those dark memories.”

“Well, I have brought him a companion, for beauty, if nothing else.”

“Yes, and this one…” He peers closely at Jaskier. “It is even more incredible than the others. You must’ve been working on this for months.”

“Even before I knew what he was to become, forsooth. My hand was guided. It is only right that he join the others.”

“I am certain Geralt will pay you handsomely. He does so like your work—and to think that before he did not care for art.”

“No, no. It is my gift, for all he has done for us here. We no longer need to fear the shadows at night. We artists, we do not fight these battles. He has taken care of them for us, and we are grateful.” She touches Jaskier’s cheek. “Besides, he is… not my creation. It came through me, but not of me. Where shall we place him?”

Barnabas-Basil scratches his chin. “I told him before, and I believe now, that it would be perfect in the flower garden.”

“And in time for Beltane, mais oui, it is perfect.”

Jaskier doesn’t sleep. Every creak, every step, and every horse hoof on the road seems to ring through him. His body feels different. It makes little sense: he knows that if anything, stone is _more_ rigid than metal. Still, he feels like his body hums with the anticipation. “He better not be doing anything stupid,” Jaskier says. “And he better not disappear for months again.” He can feel that his mouth is curved into the same little smile, but he almost feels like if he tries hard enough, he can scowl.

The sun rises and he’s reminded of the extent of Corvo Bianco’s beauty. He’s in the flower garden, the shabby greenhouse, and the spring blooms have been joined by the budding summer blossoms. The colors make him feel weak. He hasn’t seen them this close before, just overlooked them from behind the house. He wonders if Geralt can be convinced, somehow, to drag a chair down here to lounge away the summer. It’ll be shaded.

One of the maids come through and makes flower crowns for the festival. She places one on his head before flouncing off with a swirl of her white gown. Jaskier wonders if she’ll be taking part in anything like Geralt described. He hopes she finds that kind of satisfaction.

At dusk, he smells wood smoke from the first of the bonfires, and it blends with the scent of rose petals, lilac, and honeysuckle.

Vaguely, Jaskier wonders how he can smell.

“Jaskier?”

He thinks, if he had a heart, it would stop. He feels something throb in him, in his chest, as Geralt steps into the garden. “Geralt,” he says. Of course, Geralt doesn’t hear him. He steps closer, and Jaskier sees the exhaustion on his face. He tries to speak up, again, to just, in any way, somehow, to move his mouth.

“Are you…” Geralt reaches out and touches Jaskier’s face. His fingertips brush against him, and Jaskier moans. He remembers the tenderness from before. He tries to tilt his head, to lean into it. “You’re back,” Geralt whispers. He presses his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “Yes, I am.” He strains. The throbbing in his chest quickens. He tries to reach for Geralt.

“I thought that I had… that maybe it was a curse. Maybe it is still a curse. Maybe I’m just destined for this, to love someone imagined, who can’t love me back.”

“But I do,” Jaskier says. “I love you.” His arm aches with the strain, and then it cracks.

Geralt gasps. His eyes go wide and he tries to grasp Jaskier’s wrist. The marble splits in his fingers. “No! What—”

“Geralt!” Jaskier squeezes his fist. The marble cracks and cleaves, and then it starts to flake away.

“What’s—” Geralt clutches at Jaskier’s arm. The marble breaks apart, and Geralt stills. “Jaskier?” Very slowly, he presses his hand onto Jaskier’s skin. His breath is heavy and quick as he carefully, gently, starts to peel the pieces away.

The marble covers Jaskier like a shell, and Geralt clears his arm, his shoulder, and then his neck. 

Then he uncovers Jaskier’s face. They stare at each other for a moment. “Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice shakes.

“G-Ger-alt?”

Geralt seems to collapse against him. He makes a guttural noise, a sort of anguished sound, before he pulls back. “What is this? Are you—”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Your voice, Jaskier. I know it, it’s familiar, like I—what I imagined…”

“I’ve been talking to you for a year now, I would certainly hope you recognize my voice.” He tries to glare at Geralt, but then he laughs, and Geralt laughs, and then the rest of the marble cracks and crumbles, and Jaskier steps free. He steps into Geralt’s arms, and Geralt holds him like he’s a precious, sacred thing. He lets him go long enough to bend down, pick up the flower crown, and return it to Jaskier’s head.

“Beltane?” Geralt asks.

“It’s a time for new beginnings.” Jaskier’s lips curve into a smile, one that feels remarkably familiar, and he picks the pieces, as he saw the maid do earlier, for another crown. Honeysuckle for affection, tulips for declaring his love. He pinches thorns off roses and entwines them into it. He adds sprigs of marjoram for joy. He grins as he settles it onto Geralt’s head. “There,” he says. “Now you’re ready to celebrate.”

Geralt scoffs. “I don’t participate in these sorts of—”

“You promised me,” Jaskier interrupts.

Geralt shakes his head. “How did I know you were a pain in the ass?”

Jaskier just smiles and takes him by the hand. “You knew, and you fell in love with me anyway.”

The bonfires are lit across the countryside, and the breeze carries music and warmth through the valley. Jaskier can feel his heart beat. He feels his lungs fill and release, and he feels Geralt’s hand in his own as he pulls him along. They stop on a ridge, overlooking the revelers. “I can’t wait to make you show me everything,” Jaskier says. “The Beauclair Palace, the Gran’place, the Sansretour.”

“I don’t remember telling you about the palace or Gran’place.”

“No, I know about them from before—it’s like, a memory, who I am, but I’m looking through fogged glass. A past life.”

“Hm.” He turns his face away, looking back at Jaskier from the side. “But everything else… you do remember? Everything I… said?”

Jaskier feels his pulse speed, and it thrills him. He feels his skin come alive with gooseflesh as a shiver runs through him, remembering. “I remember everything you’ve said… and done.”

Geralt bites down on his lower lip. “Oh.”

Jaskier turns. “Oh?” He hums. He reaches for Geralt and pulls him to face him. “Why? Do you want to take it all back now? What you did?”

Geralt’s eyes penetrate his, then lower to his mouth. “No.” His voice is breathless. “Just that you—I don’t know what you would—”

Jaskier stops him with a kiss. It’s a shy, small thing, and his first. He feels his body quake, and he rolls it, experimentally, against Geralt. Geralt pulls back, breathless, and then surges forward to reclaim his lips.

His kiss is everything Jaskier dreamt it would be. His lips mold perfectly to Jaskier’s, as if they were made for it. His tongue, when it meets Jaskier’s, is tantalizing. It invades and retreats, and Jaskier clings to him, desperate to keep up.

Beltane’s magic is heavy in the air. It’s an invitation and encouragement to give in to desire. The music drifting up from the festival changes. It turns primal, with drums and a soaring flute, and Jaskier grasps Geralt’s shirt and tugs. “Are you sure?” Geralt asks. “You’ve just—”

“I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

“If you’d rather—”

Jaskier presses his fingers to Geralt’s lips. “It’s Beltane, Geralt.” He traces Geralt’s bottom lip with a finger. His thumb presses against Geralt’s chin.

In response, Geralt closes his eyes. He tilts his head, and Jaskier cups his face. “I can’t believe you’re real,” Geralt murmurs. “How can you be real?”

“Magic,” Jaskier whispers, and kisses him again.

Geralt’s skin is even more beautiful beneath the stars and the moon. He seems to glow, and Jaskier can’t stop touching. He finds he likes being touched, too, especially once he slides out of his robe. His body is so marvelously alive, and when arousal flows through him, hot and urgent, he feels triumphant. He sees his cock press, hard and insistent against Geralt’s; the pressure makes him moan, and Geralt takes him in hand.

Geralt’s hands explore Jaskier’s body, greedy and reverent. He lays Jaskier down in clover and his fingers, warm and rough with callouses, trace over him. His mouth finds Jaskier’s chest, then trails across his stomach to his hip. “If I had oil with me,” Geralt tells him, “I would claim you, here.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees in a shaking voice. His breath hitches as Geralt’s lips travel across his hip, and he takes Jaskier by hand again.

“But for now...” Geralt growls, and he licks a line from the base to the head of Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier feels like he’s splitting apart. For a moment, he’s terrified he’s going to disappear again, but the ground beneath him presses against his back and the breeze shifts his sweat-dampened hair across his brow. He feels every movement of Geralt’s body, every bit of wet heat from his mouth. When Geralt takes him deep, surely to the back of his throat, he makes a noise he’s never even imagined. He feels charged with something, like pressure building. “I think—I think I’m about to—” and Geralt eases up. He slows, as if he’s savoring it. He takes his time.

“I’m going to make this good for you.”

“It is.” It really is. “Oh, gods, it is.”

Later, near dawn, Geralt lies back against his pillows, and Jaskier eases himself down onto him. He grips Geralt’s oil-slick cock by the base and guides it to where they’ve tirelessly worked him open, stretching him slowly, impossibly, until he’s a quivering mess. He moves his body instinctually. He knows what he wants, and he knows how to take it, but the reality of it nearly overwhelms him. He realizes he had an idea of pleasure, a conceptualization of it, but that the ache of need and desire that blooms in his gut is something he couldn’t truly fathom. He rocks himself, rolling his hips, taking Geralt deeper and deeper. The stretch makes his mouth fall open; the intensity of Geralt’s stare leaves him breathless.

When they find their pace, Geralt shifts Jaskier’s hips. He thrusts, and finds a place in Jaskier that, with every move, sends sparks through his vision. He moans and curses, and Geralt does it again and again until Jaskier can only try to hold on, crying out with the heat and fullness and bliss of it all. He comes without being touched and Geralt grips his hips so tight, it’s almost too much. He follows him over the edge, Jaskier’s name uttered like a prayer.

Geralt wakes him gently in the morning. No one in the house, even Barnabas-Basil, seems too surprised by Jaskier’s appearance. Curses and transformations are, for better or worse, a fairly common occurrence in Toussaint.

The feasting continues through May Day.

Afterward, they sit on the chaise and watch the starlight over the valley. Jaskier strums his lute. Geralt asks him questions and finally hears him answer. They talk until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Beltane here is based on its depiction in Sword of Destiny.-
> 
> The idea that love can be strong enough to give someone life is really beautiful.  
> Now, Pygmalion falls in love with Galatea because she's pretty, and he begs Aphrodite to make her real. I wanted this to be a bit different because, you know, looks are fine and all, but what if Galatea was made flesh only to find out her new husband was a big ole dick (which, I mean, he was)? The difficulty of that, of course, is that it's hard to create a relationship between people who can't communicate. Fortunately, this world has magic. 
> 
> Also, the visual of Jaskier hatching from marble like a baby bird... Priceless. It isn't what I was actually going for, but when I look back at this, yeah.  
> Galatea, of course, metamorphosed from the marble to flesh. I hope this version isn't off-putting. I just really like the image of the crumbling shell. Almost as much as the image of them at Beltane wearing flower crowns. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading this story! I'd love to know if you liked it. I know this is probably kind of a weird story, especially in this fandom, but I hope you enjoyed it. Your comments & kudos are greatly, greatly appreciated 💕 Thanks!


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